


Bound Menagerie

by Noon30ish



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Dom/sub, Edgeplay, Human Furniture, M/M, Overstimulation, Rope Bondage, Sex on Furniture, Shibari, Subspace
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-03
Updated: 2019-10-03
Packaged: 2020-11-22 07:43:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,551
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20870663
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Noon30ish/pseuds/Noon30ish
Summary: Chris is a painter with a few more kinks than his boyfriend realized.Created forRope Burn,the YoI Shibari Project.





	Bound Menagerie

**Author's Note:**

> I think it's been almost a year since I've written for YoI, and probably a lot longer since I've actually posted. I would say that I've moved on to writing in other fandoms, but I haven't really done much writing either. Hopefully that will change someday.
> 
> But not today so here's a fic I wrote awhile ago that I'm finally able to post!

Patience was a virtue. Patience was a mixture of kindness, empathy, and understanding. Every person had a reservoir of patience, gentle as a glacial lake—or a pond, or a puddle. 

Phichit did _ not _ have anymore patience, his pool long drained dry like the paint across his back. Hands poised above his head, arms framing his face in a diamond, he had stayed still for hours now without so much as a word from Chris. And Phichit was readily blaming him for this.

When Phichit booked his flight to Switzerland some weeks ago, he had hoped his boyfriend would treat him to a great time. And, well, he _ had_—there was no lie about that. But Phichit had other frisky pastimes on his mind. Normally Chris would be all over him, and Phichit would beg for them to take a break after he lost count, the number of orgasms blurring around in a satiated, overstimulated haze.

The entire week thus far could be classified as a serious drought if Phichit were counting the number of orgasms he had. Chris never made any move, and when Phichit pushed and pushed he would only shrug and give some lame excuse. Like indigestion, a broken shower, the lube was too far and he was tired, he needed to work on a commission, or that he just wanted to cuddle—oh, the things Phichit let Chris get away with were endless. Chris drank and drank from Phichit’s well of patience until, finally, he had snapped.

That was when Chris closed into Phichit’s space, towering over him in that way Phichit craved—and after a whole week of teasing, it was more than enough for a boner to spring. Phichit would have been embarrassed if he wasn’t so goddamn relieved by the prospect of Chris making up a week’s worth of sex to him in that moment.

Chris, caressing Phichit’s cheek, leaned down and whispered against the shell of his ear with barely a breath. “Can I use you?”

“Yes,” Phichit had sighed, hands gripping at those strong biceps he loved to be caged by, and he was already reaching up on the tips of his toes with open lips to kiss that damn—

But Chris held him down. “Great. Lemme go get the paint and the rope.”

Then the heat that had built up between them dissipated and Chris fled down the hall to his room without another word.

“What the fuck,” Phichit said in disbelief, rooted to the spot he stood.

Chris reappeared from his studio with his paints, brushes, and a large coiled rope in a pale blue. He gestured for Phichit to follow him out to the dining area, setting his materials on the table. A light shone in his eyes that made Phichit melt whenever it flashed. It was a lovely sight, but that didn’t stop him from questioning every single second that passed without any answers.

Unfurling the two ends of the rope, Chris began tying intricate knots, undoing them when something didn’t look right. He set it aside to scatter his paints and spread them out before picking the rope back up to muse over some additional unseen knot.

Phichit cleared his throat. “So,” he said as he sidled up behind Chris, pulling their bodies flush together and roaming his hands over the front of Chris’s thin shirt, “how did you wanna use me?”

Chris gave him a smile that Phichit could read loud and clear through the silence. “I have a personal project I’ve been wanting to do.”

“Oh?”

“Still life,” Chris explained, showcasing the rope as if it had anything to do with artfully arranged fruit bowls or tablecloths.

“Still life.” Phichit parroted, doubtful.

Chris spun around in Phichit’s arms and slid the rope over his head in one fluid motion. There was a hint of pink high on his cheeks. He pulled on the rope, bringing Phichit’s face to his so that he could press their lips together. Ever so eager for more, Phichit leaned into it, tried to deepen it, but Chris _ still _ wouldn’t let the contact last. 

Instead, he put a finger to Phichit’s glossy lips. “I want you to be the subject.”

“Um, I’m no artist but,” Phichit had his hands up, gesturing with each word, “wouldn’t that be a _ portrait_, not a _ still life_?”

Chris’s cute demeanor darkened with a devious smirk and hungry eyes. “_Non, non, mon petit_. I need you to be my pretty little vase. Can you do that for me?” He asked with the curl of his knuckles grazing down Phichit’s jaw, voice sweeter than honeydew. 

“O-Oh?” Phichit stuttered out the last of his dignity. If he thought he had been hard before—he was even more so now with their hips pressed together. There was no way that Chris didn’t know that too. 

“I’ll shape my vase, make sure my vase is positioned where I want it to be,” Chris said as he pulled the knot of the rope tighter against Phichit’s neck, ghosting his fingers along, trailing goosebumps wherever they roamed, “and then paint my vase to make it look stunning. And I’ll take pictures of my beautiful vase before making it crack and break by my hands.”

_ Now _ Phichit was undeniably hard, harder than he had ever been in his life. “How long ‘til that point?” His voice cracked as Chris started taking off his clothes.

Chris didn’t say anything. When Phichit was stripped naked before him, his eyes appraised Phichit’s body with an unbridled, artistic eye. As if Phichit was an object. He would have been offended if it didn’t turn him on so much.

Without warning, Chris picked him up, ropes dangling around them, and sat him down on the center of the dining table. His cold, calloused hands shifted Phichit’s arms and legs this way and that, his face drawn into a focused pinch. Vulnerability spidered its way up Phichit’s spine.

With pursed lips, hands tracing Phichit’s outline, Chris hummed in contemplation—and an undercurrent of curious arousal. “If anything gets too tight, let me know.”

Phichit nodded and Chris threaded the rope all about his body, arms through loops and knots over joints. Snug pressure tethered his beating heart back inside his body. If he was good, Chris would be done faster—and the faster he got done, the less time there was between now and when Phichit would get bent over and fucked silly. So he froze himself in place and waited as he let Chris play his little game.

But patience would drown under the thickness in the air between them, because Phichit _ knew _ Chris was avoiding his obviously hard cock that was pointing outward. He would have given it a tug himself just to provide some relief, but his arms were already out for the count, and each leg was tied to their side of the table, making it impossible to gain any friction from his thighs if he got that desperate. Which he _ wasn’t_, not _ at all_.

The pale rope latticed down his dark skin, dipping into the lines of his muscles, knots rubbing against sensitive spots. Chris stood back for a moment to admire his work and Phichit took the opportunity to tug and pull and twist. Chris’s eyes followed the ropes, burning desire through them, sending warmth south, draining all fight from Phichit’s body.

“How do I look, Chris?” Phichit asked, smile demure, glancing up from under his lashes.

If Chris was bothered by the way Phichit subtly raised his hips, he didn’t show it. He tilted his head left, right, then left again. 

“You look perfect to paint. Such a pretty, blank canvas,” Chris said as he began to open and section his paints out on his palette.

Phichit let out a low whine. “You’re gonna make me wait until you’re done painting? Chriiiisssssss, c’mon, you’ve been restricting my dick access all week.”

Chris paused mid-tube squeeze, and glanced in Phichit’s direction. His expression was unreadable but dark. The thrill of goading him only emboldened Phichit to push further.

“Can’t you paint me afterwards?” He asked in his sweet, innocent voice, arching his back to emphasize all the places on his body that he knew Chris adored. Hoping that soon Chris would kiss and scratch and knead. “I want you so _ bad_.”

Setting his paints down, Chris left the room, leaving Phichit kneeling atop a table in the middle of his open living area. And after a few agonizingly silent seconds, he returned. 

In his hand was a vibrator Phichit was _ rather _ intimate with, and a packet of lube.

Phichit was about to ask a question when Chris tore the packet open and reached underneath him to pull him up by the meat of his thigh. He placed the toy where Phichit would sit back down but he continued to hold Phichit up. The finger he had spread lube over was now rubbing at his entrance and it was so, so, _ so _unfair that his cock remained ignored.

“I thought I heard something and figured, well, perhaps my vase is leaking. Can’t have it making noises like that, so I’ll just have to fix it.”

In the midst of Chris’s words, his finger entered with little resistance. Phichit yelped at the sudden intrusion.

“How is this fixing it?” Phichit asked as Chris wasted no time in preparing him, fingering him open.

Chris said nothing. He shifted Phichit a tiny bit so that he could angle three fingers inside and curl them forward.

Phichit keened, struggling to fold over before the ropes restricted him. He could come if Chris would just do that and _ touch him_. A pitiful whine escaped his throat.

But that was when Chris’s fingers disappeared and there was pressure on Phichit’s thighs to sit back, taking in the vibrator with ease until he sat just as he was before. Chris watched his face, eyes searching in silent question. Phichit took a deep breath and nodded. This was okay, this was fine. He could go along with this.

Then Chris clicked a button, dial set low and vibrations just barely a hum.

Phichit took back his words in an instant. If this was meant to be mercy, he wanted to pray to a different god.

Chris walked around the other side of the table out of eyesight. Phichit tried to turn his head to glance at where he went but his arm obstructed his vision, leaving only the sound of soft _ tut-tuts _ and quiet snickers. Phichit was now a slave to his senses. And as if to hammer that fact home, tubes of paint squeezed out globs with squelches that made Phichit squirm. 

But nothing prepared him for the cold weight of paint falling onto his back. He hissed, the sensation tingly and weird and yet still making his dick twitch. 

The fact that a touch this simple turned him on more was a testament to the culminated torture from the entire week up until now. Every drop of blood that ran south coursed past each knot against his skin, reminding him that he was trapped. 

Then another thing pressed into the paint on his back—a brush with bristles that smeared it in unrecognizable patterns. It tickled as more paint traveled towards his spine, under his shoulder blades, near where the ropes rested but never quite touching. Phichit would lean into it, chasing the only sensations of touch Chris was allowing him to have, only to be firmly handled back into his original position.

“Ah-ah,” Chris admonished, poking at him with the blunt end of the brush handle, “vases don’t move, it would ruin their design.”

Phichit huffed with indignance but did as he was told. Not that he wanted to, but he figured he would have a better opportunity to press Chris’s buttons soon enough.

It wasn’t until Chris clicked a few times on the dial that Phichit remembered he was sitting with a vibrator inside him. The low vibrations before had been numbing, background sensations that Phichit hadn’t been concerned with.

That changed quickly.

A strained gasp escaped Phichit’s lips, the muscles from his thighs all the way up his back and into his shoulders constricting at the sudden ramp of vibrations thrumming just inside of him. In the back of his mind, he knew it was punishment, but somewhere in between thought and verbal response the translation got lost.

“Oh, fuck, Chris,” Phichit stuttered.

Chris’s hand was quick to cover his mouth, the smell of acrylic paint assaulting his nostrils as fingers clamped onto his cheeks. He said nothing, but the warning was clear in the harder push of the brush against pressure points and down tantalizingly close to the pulse of the toy.

It seemed like ages, between changing paints and washing brushes, when Chris would walk away and leave Phichit high and dry—in the literal sense. He would fiddle with the dial in the other room and Phichit was riding closer to the edge with little to save him from the precipice he craved to crash down into. Without any touch to his cock, Phichit could only whimper and dry hump the air with what little give the ropes had. There wasn’t much, but at this point even the slight breeze on his cock was enough to add to his desperation.

Though any more movement than that earned him a swat to his inner thigh. A tiny bit of pleasure—but a sting so great Phichit would freeze in place and whimper helplessly.

After the last excursion to clean his brushes, Chris came back with his old polaroid, a black and white traditional film camera, and his phone ready to capture the fruits of his labor. He set them down at the edge of the table in a row, picking each one up in turn, seeming to debate which one he would start with.

When he chose the polaroid camera, he pointed it at Phichit’s face and tilted his chin up with a paint-stained finger. “You make such a pretty vase, _ mon petit._”

The anticipation and frustration that had been building, simmering, began to boil close to the edge of the pot. Phichit was clinging, grasping at hope, knowing that as soon as these pictures were over he would get those hands all over him, inside him, wrapped around him in heady need. The word please tumbled around and around inside his head, over and over, his eyes begging Chris in the silence.

Then Chris’s finger and his figure disappeared, a moment later the camera clicking and shutter clacking as picture after picture was taken of whatever masterpiece was on Phichit’s back, latticed by rope. Just when there couldn’t have possibly been any more angles for Chris to take advantage of, he switched cameras and continued the same song and dance once again. If Phichit could use his hands, he would be scratching at the wood on the table, clawing at the ropes on his skin.

It took a minute before he realized that Chris’s cameras had stopped taking pictures. The vibrations were turned off. Precome had dripped down his cock, over some of the rope, and begun to pool onto the table. Phichit groaned at the sight, praying Chris would end this charade soon.

But when Chris entered his vision again, Phichit saw he was holding several red roses in his hands, stems dethorned, petals vibrant.

“Wh-what…” Phichit couldn’t put his words together, voice rough though he hadn’t spoken.

“A vase needs flowers,” was all Chris replied with before he began to thread the roses throughout the ropes. Front and back, around his neck and lining his hips, the rose stems and Chris’s fingers grazed over his touch deprived skin, setting wildfires in his mind. Chris even dared to place some into the ropes that circled the base of Phichit’s cock.

But nowhere near the head, which was starting to itch and pinch and _ hurt _ after being ignored for so long. It had Phichit whining and whimpering with tears prickling the corners of his eyes.

Then Chris took more pictures.

Phichit’s mind was reeling. All sensation in his body seemed to numb. He was angry, fuming, but his hard cock took pleasure in everything and he was hopelessly driven by the need to come by any means he could manage.

“—okay, _ petit_?” 

“Hmm?” Phichit asked weakly.

“I said I’ve gotta go run some errands and develop the film,” Chris repeated into the shell of his ear. Even warm breath made Phichit’s cock weep more than he thought possible.

The words clicked together after a moment and despite all the anger rising in Phichit’s restricted chest, his mouth could only form so many coherent words.

“Don’t leave me here,” Phichit pleaded, attempting to sound commanding but ended up begging instead.

An honest, painfully hard _ smack _ landed on his thigh, making him cry out involuntarily.

Chris’s eyes were dark, serious. “Vases don’t speak.”

Phichit would have been scared if he wasn’t a pebble away from a total landslide of his resolve.

And yet as close as Phichit thought he could be from his orgasm, Chris always managed to raise the plateau just a little higher. He had the dial in his back pocket at all times, going to the effort to show Phichit as he walked out the door. 

It wasn’t until he heard the car start up and drive away that the vibrations returned near full blast. Phichit’s body trembled. Doubled over as far as it could with the ropes holding him back. The material—once soft and smooth now grating and chafing—held his pieces together even when he felt like falling apart and his mind began to slip.

An hour later Chris returned with grocery bags. He set them on the table next to Phichit and began to put away what looked to be ingredients for dinner. Phichit barely had the strength to watch, his body resigned to holding its shape and his overstimulated hole throbbing with the now violent vibrations. There was drool collecting in the corner of his lips threatening to spill over, but he couldn’t seem to care. Even though his mouth was free to move and speak, he could only look at Chris and pray he could read his mind.

It wasn’t until everything was put away that Chris finally regarded his vase, eyes roaming the frame and handiwork. He leaned in and sniffed at a rose near Phichit’s neck. His hair and breath tickled. Every new sensation Phichit had been deprived set alight his nerves and a pitiful, cracked whine crawled its way up his throat.

But he didn’t speak. Couldn’t.

He yearned to tell Chris he needed release, that his balls hurt, that all the blood in his upper body was just about to run dry and his head was woozy. Pleasantly woozy, in that way one might have a buzz, putting his head in a space not quite there. But the vibrations changed to a pulse and it took the last of his strength to choke out a sob.

“Ah, that’s what’s missing,” Chris said at last. He plucked a rose from the knot underneath the base of Phichit’s cock—tickling and making it twitch to the point that Phichit thought he was actually going to come—and pressed the shortened stem to Phichit’s lips.

Slack as they were, Phichit accepted the stem without complaint. Now the flower sat in front of his lips, petals caressing them like a pacifier, and the sticky, bitter taste of the cut stem coated his tongue.

Unbridled, unadulterated joy sparked in Chris’s eyes. “I wonder how the painting looks with the ropes off? I bet it’s beautiful,” he mused as his fingertips brushed down a length of rope over Phichit’s sternum. “I hope the vase won’t lose its shape.”

Phichit saw a daunting question in Chris’s gaze and he nodded ever so slightly. Rational thoughts were buried so deep by his desperate need that he couldn’t answer properly even if he tried.

To give Chris credit, he worked slow as he untied the knots and unthreaded the loops. He kept actual skin contact to a minimum, building until Phichit’s body could withstand a short brush of knuckles or a sweep of fingertips. It still made Phichit’s body scream, but as much as Phichit wanted to say such, he just didn’t have any fight left in him. He would literally be in Chris’s hands from here on. His usual bratty bedroom behavior had disintegrated a long time ago.

Even once the ropes were off, Phichit felt the ghost of their embrace on his wrists, arms, chest, thighs, everywhere they had snaked around him. He was scared to move, scared that he might actually shatter. So he remained in place, hoping that he was being what Chris wanted him to be. Ropes and roses were scattered on the table around him like torn ribbon and wrapping paper.

Chris’s eyes drank him in like an empty pitcher dipped into the ocean, filling to the brim with objective, impersonal admiration. “What a beautiful vase I’ve made,” he complimented them both. “I can’t wait to break it and make it whole again.”

The devil in the shape of a camera came into Phichit’s vision again and a vague sense of agitation and hatred flooded through his head for a moment. As much as he wanted to protest, he couldn’t.

Being the subject of beauty to an artist was the highest form of flattery.

So he obediently sat through several more rounds of pictures, more whispered compliments among the silence. Whether or not it would be over soon was no longer a question. In fact, the thought of having an orgasm right now might have completely broken Phichit then and there. He wondered, somewhere deep down, if Chris would let him come at all.

But when Chris put the cameras away and came back, he appeared disinterested again. He walked past the table with a book in his hand as he headed for the living room couch.

And the pulses became longer, sharper, so much more intense that Phichit was caught off guard. He cried out, voice hoarse from disuse, and the pleasure pierced him so thoroughly he knew his shell had cracked and fallen apart.

“NO!”

Chris came to a halt, spun on his heel, and gave Phichit a questioning look.

“Chris, _ please_!” Phichit sobbed, tears trailing down his cheeks. “Please, please! I’ve been good, please! Lemme come lemmecomelemmecome, pl-eee-eas-se!”

The vibrator turned off. 

Each step Chris took closer seemed to take an eternity longer than the one before. He stood between Phichit’s spread thighs and stared down at him. “I think my vase is defective. That’s unfortunate. I guess I’ll just have to—”

Before Phichit could shout, Chris’s hot hands seared into his hips as they manhandled him, throwing him around and pulling up so that his abused ass was on display. In shock Phichit had managed to slam his hands down to brace himself, but the sudden touch was so much—too much—_too much_—and all he could do was cry with a wet cheek pressed to the wood grain.

Pants were unzipped, a bottle was uncapped, and Phichit’s hole began to clench down at the thought of what was about to happen. He didn’t think he could take it now. Everything had become a lit match inches away from a gas barrel and he knew if Chris pushed inside that the barrel would ignite.

“—fix it,” Chris leaned over and whispered, the heat of his body roiling off him as he hovered over Phichit’s back.

Though Phichit had been prepared at the start of this and had a vibrator inside him for hours, that only meant the first few inches were well-equipped. The rest of him would have to accommodate the rest of Chris if he chose to go all the way in.

And, knowing Chris, Phichit was about to experience just that.

He barely felt the head of Chris’s cock before it was being shoved inside in one fluid motion. The stretch of his insides created a pleasant burn and the warmth in his gut expanded as he tried to keep it all for himself—which earned him a resounding _ slap _ across his right cheek.

“F-uck!” Phichit gasped.

But just like entering, Chris wasted no time in pulling out, shifting his grip on Phichit’s hips, and slamming back inside at a pace Phichit knew he wasn’t going to keep up with.

He wasn’t sure how long he lasted, how many times Chris fucked into him, or how loud he was screaming and crying and moaning like a pornstar filming their last video. All he knew was that he had tumbled down the edge of the cliff as soon as Chris began and he was still falling, come coating his stomach, chest, and the table. His vision went white.

That didn’t stop Chris from continuing. No matter how his hole clenched or how much he begged, Chris didn’t stop until he came as well, using Phichit just like he said he would. It could have been seconds, minutes, or hours and Phichit wouldn’t have known the difference.

Chris must have had just as much if not more pent up inside him, because his orgasm seemed to last and last, filling Phichit with more than he thought he could handle. Come squelched and dribbled around Chris’s cock and down both their thighs.

Then the click of a camera, and another, and one more as Chris pulled out and even more come leaked. Phichit shuddered one more gasp before collapsing onto the table and sobbing. Completely boneless.

A few minutes passed before Phichit was scooped up off the table and into strong, warm arms. He laid his hand over Chris’s chest and hummed, though it sounded far away.

“Phichit, don’t,” Chris whined, “you’re still gross.”

“‘S your fault,” Phichit sighed, caught somewhere between half-asleep and a year-long coma.

When Phichit did wake up again, though, they were in Chris’s bed. He was clean and wearing one of Chris’s larger t-shirts. Satiated and comfortable, he cuddled further into Chris’s arms and asked if Chris would show him the pictures.

Chris, smiling down at him, obliged. There were photos from start to finish, and even a video. Progressively more lewd and far more intimate with each scroll.

“Delete that.”

“_Non_.”

“Fine. Encrypt it.”

“_Oui, mon petit_.” Chris held him tighter, snuggling into the crook of Phichit’s shoulder. His scruff scratched at Phichit’s still-sensitive skin. “I’m glad you enjoyed it. I was hoping you would.”

Phichit hummed. “You’re not actually using these in a gallery, though, are you?”

The silence grew palpable. Chris cleared his throat guiltily. “Am I not allowed to?”

“Chris!”

He chuckled and pressed a big, sloppy kiss to Phichit’s cheek. “No, I won’t. They’re staying in my _ personal _ gallery, though.”

“Fine,” Phichit said, conceding. “But next time you visit me, I’m going to make my own gallery of you.”

“You can’t do that now?” Chris raised an eyebrow. He shifted his weight to hold himself over Phichit, caging him in a challenge.

Phichit pursed his lips, wondering how much space he had on his phone’s SD card.

“Go get on that table.”

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you enjoyed it! Please let me know in the comments what you thought! :)
> 
> Meanwhile, you can find a couple other YoI fics in my AO3 here. If you happen to like BnHA, I have a Twitter I'm currently using as my base for writing content geared toward that. Follow if you'd like!
> 
> [Noon's Twitter.](https://twitter.com/Noon30ish)


End file.
